


Devil May Care

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: How To Train Your Tank [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:03:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5034820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allowing Megatron’s most loyal Decepticon to self-destruct just wouldn’t be any fun. Overlord intends Tarn to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shibara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shibara/gifts).



Allowing Megatron’s most loyal Decepticon to self-destruct just wouldn’t be any fun. Overlord intends Tarn to live.

 

**Title:** Devil May Care  
 **Warning:** Attempted suicide, forced care, mindfragging instead of mental help. A ‘what if’ extrapolation off of Tarn’s depressive behavior after discovering Megatron’s defection.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW, AU for MTMTE #39  
 **Characters:** Tarn, Overlord, Nickel, Decepticon Justice Division.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** As motivation for Shibara, prompts from a list of her favorite robot kinks were picked to write ficlets for. This one grew out of control.

**Pt. 1**

**[* * * * *]**

“Oh, no. No, I don’t think so. You won’t be escaping so easily.”

Tarn dully wondered whom Nickel had found to pester him this time. She’d given up screaming abuse and trying to force an energon drip into his arm after her last tantrum, he’d thought, and the rest of his mechs respected his choice to turn his face to the wall and offline. He hadn’t explicitly _said_ that’s what he was doing, but he considered it fairly apparent. So had his unit. 

This mech, however, wasn’t one of the Decepticon Justice Division. He knew that much immediately. An audio tag pinged a match in his archives. He lacked motivation to chase down the associated designation, but the rich, amused voice seemed familiar to him. Familiar with him, as well. 

“I understand why I was brought here, now. It all makes sense. Charming medic you have, by the way. Seemingly working against you for your own good, Tarn. You might want to investigate that. I believe I would have died out there as a floater but for her determination to save you, and that did seem rather counterintuitive initially. I thought it was your goal to hunt me down as a traitor to your beloved leader.” A tinge of puzzlement entered the purring voice. “Although I’m told I paid the price of my life already, strangely. Your subordinates -- very loyal to you but annoying, you should curb them before I do -- insisted on showing me recorded proof of my own execution while I was still recovering. It certainly seemed real enough, evidence of my survival aside. I broke out of that prison your video shows me locked in. Odd…”

“Regardless, I’m here now, and this does make sense of your medic’s nattering. My survival as well. Ironic how executing traitors has come around to this, isn’t it?” Amusement roughened to a dark undertone as the speaker drew closer to where Tarn stubbornly laid, optics closed. Anger filled the mystery mech’s voice. Tarn knew that tone. He felt the betrayal as his own. This mech, too, had seen the universe turn its back on him. “I knew you possessed a flair for overdramatic gestures, but starving yourself offline, Tarn? Tsk. Your subordinates are frantic. How touching. They all think I will either inspire you to fight for your life, or perhaps just put you out of your misery, and then I suppose they believe I will oblige their own death wishes by taking them out in blaze of glory. The last stand of the D.J.D., against me. Their last chance to be heroes, and I their villain. Well, I feel no obligation to give them what they want, play the part they’ve cast me in, and you.” The speaker leaned down to growl an unsettling low promise in Tarn’s audio. “You won’t be escaping this so easily.” 

“You don’t get a tidy ending. There’s no cut-and-dried finish at my hands. Living through this is going to be a slow agony, and I want to see you suffer, Tarn. I want to see you struggle to come to grips with your idol turning his back on you, on everything he preached to you, on everything you’ve built your pathetic hopes, dreams, beliefs, and future on. I want to watch you see it fall to ruin around your feet. I want you to see him as the weak, sniveling politician he’s become. I want you to know he’ll never respond to your questions. He’ll never turn his attention toward you. You are one worthless minion among many, now abandoned, and I want to see the realization dawn in your flickering spark that he doesn’t care. You are nothing and no one to him, whatever you once were, and you and your Cause are left behind to rot.”

A strong hand wrapped around the back of Tarn’s neck, yanking him upright on the recharge slab. He stiffened in apprehension. The words pouring honeyed poison into his audio never stopped, and they churned through his apathetic depression like the shrapnel tearing bloody wounds, or knives slicing open an infection to finally drain. They hurt to hear, and he shuddered under the pain. His mask ripped off his helm, and the hard edge of a glass pressed to his lips. Stubborn, he tried to turn aside, and the glass slammed into his clenched teeth as the mech holding him ground it between his lips. Energon flooded in, seeping through his teeth, and Tarn writhed futile protest in the mech’s grasp.

“They sent me to end you, one way or another, but I believe I’ll take your dear medic’s advice instead. She’s of the opinion you need to be saved despite yourself, and I want to see that. I want to see you forced to witness Megatron burning the Decepticon Empire down around you. It’s time for you to see your lord for what he really is, fanatic. I’m going to make you choke down his reversal, eat your history, realize every mistake you made owing your loyalty to someone who threw it away to save his own neck. You will come face to face with your own blind worship.”

The hand on the back of his neck dug kneading fingers into the intake valves of his throat, massaging with expert care. Tarn sputtered, too weak from starvation to really fight back. He had to swallow. The fuel washed down tasting of the bitter, vicious truth he heard, and satisfaction entered the mech’s voice as the energon went down to fill empty tanks against Tarn’s will. 

“You’re going to live, Tarn. I think you’ll strike back, too, once you’ve recovered. I’ll enjoy watching you turn on your master.”

Over and over again, the fingers made him swallow. The glass sliced into the side of his mouth when he feebly fought, pushing at his captor’s arms. His body greedily welcomed the fuel, but he didn’t want it. He didn’t want to return to the universe described to him. He didn’t want any of this to be real, but it was. The energon kneaded down his intakes one patiently pinched-open valve at a time made it clear passively fading away wasn’t an option anymore. 

“I will visit you every night if I must, reminding you of what you’ve lost. What he’s done to you. The **consequences**. You will refuel,” the amused, dark, satisfied voice informed him, “while I watch, and I will be here to supervise every mouthful. Hesitate, and this is what you have to look forward to. Your little medic will help me in this. Should she tell me your health is risked by any simple matter you should be taking care of yourself, well, it will fall to me to assume responsibility. I won’t allow you to take the easy way out, Tarn. You will suffer, and I will be right here to keep you alive.”

A strong knead forced his intakes open a final time, and the glass tipped up to drain the last of the energon down his throat. Tarn lit his optics, confused and angry, and Overlord smiled down at him. 

“But you’re welcome to resist.”

**[* * * * *]**


	2. Pt. 2

**[* * * * *]**

**Pt. 2**

**[* * * * *]**

Overlord smiled as he pried the door open. Of course. He was all smiles whenever Tarn attempted to resist him. "It seems you're feeling better! Ah. No." He stopped as soon as he entered the room. "I see. My celebration’s a bit premature. You simply had enough power for your wireless router again, hmm?"

Tarn glowered from the recharge slab. Check remotely locking the door off the list of defenses. He hadn't honestly thought a locked door would stop Overlord, but petty gestures of defiance were better than lying here in a helpless lump. It gave him something to do, anyway.

His self-appointed caretaker shook his head, tongue clicking against his teeth in that annoying _tsk-tsk_ noise Tarn had come to loathe. "You did get my hopes up for a moment. With as much energon as I've been pouring down your throat, I thought you might be regaining your strength." Fabric rustled as he walked toward the leader of the D.J.D., and Overlord sighed in mock resignation. "Your little medic is right: I do have a disproportionate sense of other's recovery times. She's been counseling patience, you know. She doesn’t want me to push you too hard or fast. Apparently you’re more fragile than I suspected. You were on the verge of shut-down. Feeding you significant amounts of fuel to power your auxiliary mods will have to wait until your processing plant readjusts to functioning fulltime."

Nickel shouldn't have interfered. Tarn intended to have _words_ with her over her traitorous, back-stabbing, sabotaging medic ways. An invasive health care plan was un-Decepticon-like. A Decepticon's body was his -- or hers -- to do with as he or she chose fit. This involuntary life-saving procedure was insulting enough, considering Tarn's right to choice, but to involve Overlord? _Overlord?!_ He was on the List!

The back of Tarn’s mind reminded him that the List didn’t matter anymore. Megatron had defected to the Autobots and disbanded the Decepticons, refuting the Cause. Overlord was just another mech, now. Who cared about the List but obsolete enforcers of a lost Cause?

He blotted out the heavy black weight behind those thoughts. It would crush him if he paid attention to it. He’d rather focus on Overlord being a complete exhaust pipe. Forced care was a humiliation hot enough to burn back the leaden thoughts.

Which was probably the point, but the hot flush spread worse if he acknowledged that. Doing exactly as Overlord wanted was just plain embarrassing. Tarn pushed it out of his mind and glared up at the afthead. His indignation manifested in further rustling. Overlord bent over his berth, plush lips curved in an overdone expression of kind concern, and Tarn pulled handfuls of blanket cocoon closer. Contrary to what Overlord kept chiding him, he wasn't sulking. He was cold. Yes. Just cold.

Messatine had always been colder than comfortable, but blankets hadn't been part of the Justice Division's base supplies. He had no idea where Overlord had found this gigantic pillowy thing. It was large enough to hide Tesarus under and strong enough to airlift him, if necessary. Overlord insisted on covering Tarn in it. Weak flailing against its layers hadn’t broken Tarn free yet, certainly not when a solicitous supersoldier tucked any loose corners in the moment he made any progress. It was a restraint method, make no mistake, and he hated it. His strained body needed the insulation, but _ugh_.

Having words with Nickel would have to wait until he could fight loose. Considering his current poor state, he suspected walking would be more difficult than breaking out of the blanket nest. He’d barely had the fuel to power up his wireless router today, and the tiny resistance left too weak to sit up. Crawling would be a more likely than walking, at this point in his recovery.

He narrowed his optics as Overlord patted him on the helm. "Stop that."

"Make me," Overlord said back without missing a beat. He sounded entirely too pleasant. 

"I don't need you to feed me," Tarn spat.

Overlord had already turned away to fetch another glass of enriched energon. He kept smiling as he brought it back to the starved mech on the berth. "And when you're strong enough to stop me, I won't need to any more. Have we reached that point yet?" He paused, waiting for an answer.

Tarn sank a little lower in his swaddling, optics wary.

"I didn't think so. Open wide~"

Tarn didn't open wide. Tarn kicked and fought in futile protest. Overlord ruthlessly pinned him down. The glass pressed to his lips despite his frantic squirming. He'd have told Overlord exactly what he thought of everyone involved in this debacle, but that would involve opening his mouth voluntarily. Instead, he concentrated on keeping his teeth clenched shut, twisting his face away.

It didn't work. Overlord slid a blunt fingertip back into his mouth to curl behind his teeth and jacked Tarn's jaw open, ignoring the gagging noises. After that, it was as quick and easy as reloading a gun. 

"There, is this so hard? You’re doing so well. Good job. Here comes another!"

The cooing was wholly unnecessary. He’d deny it to his grave, but majority of Tarn's resistance to the feeding was actually just him freezing up when Overlord bent over him. He couldn't do anything but stare in appalled, offended horror at the sweet smile directed down at him. Pride or not, he’d have been much more cooperative by now if Overlord didn’t insist on crooning to him like a vet coaxing pills down the throat of particularly cranky pet.

"We're almost done. One more. There! Good, good."

He was not a _pet_. He didn’t need to be praised in reward for a few measly swallows. He needed to be left alone in peace!

Just…leave him alone.

Two humiliating minutes of choked, enraged sputtering later, and Overlord had forced the energon down him. Closer to one, really, but Tarn stubbornly wouldn't swallow without Overlord massaging his throat intakes open one pinch at a time. That was what took up the most time.

When he was done, Overlord sat at his side. Still smiling, the fragger. "I almost felt it when you bit me that time."

"Stop trying to make me feel better," Tarn muttered.

"Can't I encourage my patient? I believe I make an excellent nurse."

"You're a travesty."

"Mmhmm."

Overlord stroked his helm, murmuring a last endearment. Tarn tried not to listen. Overlord lied. Overlord had an agenda. Overlord was manipulating him for his own amusement. Overlord wanted him alive for entertainment. Overlord wanted him healthy enough to self-destruct over Megatron’s defection to the Autobots. That was the only reason for the warm, rich fullness in his starved tanks. Tarn knew it even as his body greedily ignored logic. His body welcomed the gentle squeezes down his throat, massaging his intakes into swallowing. The energon was delicious. Nickel must have taken great care in mixing in everything his failing body hungered for, but it was Overlord who made him drink it.

“Shhhhh. Calm down. What’s wrong? Hush, Tarn. Give your tank time to process.” The strong hand on the back of his neck settled him onto the berth again, and fighting the feeding had left him exhausted. Tarn let it happen. His weak resignation confirmed Overlord’s smug evaluation of his strength. Shameful, but shame couldn’t power his tired body. Plus, Overlord had stripped off his fusion cannons. Hmmph. “Shall I tell you the news? I know you haven’t been keeping up with current events. Well. It seems your medic’s colony hasn’t been the only one rediscovered. Starscream -- Starscream! Ha, what a joke -- has led Cybertron in contacting several new colonies. There’s been a surfeit of drama involved there -- ah ah! No, I don’t think I’ll be telling you what happened.”

Tarn seethed as Overlord flattened him back onto the berth. “Tell me.”

“I don’t want to upset my dear patient,” Overlord said. Patiently retucking the glaring mech back into the blanket cocoon, he changed the subject. “The Black Block Consortia’s been on the move.” 

Tarn’s fists made knots in the blanket. 

Overlord eyed them. “Oh? Another upsetting topic?”

He forced his hands to open, smoothing the blanket. “No. Continue.”

“Mm.” Overlord sounded unconvinced.

Tarn ground his teeth. Submission was the better part of valor, but it tasted sour as he said, “Please.”

It earned him a pat on the chest. Oh yes, Overlord liked to hear that. It kept him talking, however, so Tarn suffered the touching. “Charming as your medic is, she has quite the tale to tell. I hadn’t realized the Consortia had grown powerful enough to challenge Cybertron directly, but with the war over and the factions in disarray, it seems that might be their next move. Who knows how many colonies have already disappeared. My investigating has turned up a strange pattern of destroyed outposts in at least two quadrants.” Overlord’s hand made slow circles on the blanket. It was an absent, thoughtful gesture. “Some of them were abandoned, doubtlessly when the war was declared over, but your crew’s been very cooperative, Tarn. I brought back personnel lists I lifted from certain bases I found in, shall I say, **deplorable** condition.” The hand on his chest closed into a fist, but Tarn didn’t feel threatened. Overlord’s frown wasn’t directed at him. “Kaon has only been able to locate **parts** as of yet.”

Tarn’s ire at his subordinates died. Under the circumstances, he endorsed the D.J.D. pursuing this investigation, even if it was led by Overlord. 

“Out of curiosity, I filed a criminal report on one of the markets selling those parts. You shouldn’t be surprised by the response I received.” Overlord shook his head in mock disappointment. “The Galactic Council may not be openly supporting the Consortia as if yet, but it’s rather telling that it’s permitting the sale of identified pieces from sentient beings.” 

This was terrible news. Tarn’s optics lit in hellish anger, for once not directed at the mech pinning him down, and Overlord smiled down at him. “And your precious Lord Megatron’s gone off in a ship full of Autobots to look for the Knights of Cybertron. Amazing what kind of priorities he has, isn’t it?”

Unprepared for the sudden strike, the sugar-sweet words struck home. Black memory dropped, crushing him under its weight, under the churning cycle of repeating thoughts. Tarn outright flinched, blanket-wrapped treads fruitlessly spinning in their encasement as altmode instinct prodded him to escape the pain. Tender wounds tore open in his spark. Fresh betrayal stabbed deep into his reeling mind. His left optic twitched, and his hands creaked around fistfuls of soft, stupid, smothering blanket as stifling as Overlord’s pretense of care.

Overlord didn't stay with him long after that. What should have been a small comfort amidst the violation became another way to hurt him, however. Tarn couldn't even look forward to the slaghead leaving him alone, because Overlord did one last thing before leaving him:

“I hope you’re paying attention today,” Overlord sing-songed as he set the new revision of _Toward Peace_ on the table across the room. Tarn’s engine growled. Overlord walked out, pointedly closing the broken door, but Tarn’s optics stayed on the bookfile. Overlord had set it to play Megatron's latest speech. This time, as the last time and the time before and so on, Tarn had no choice but to listen to Megatron repudiate the Decepticon Cause.

Overlord was right. Tarn hadn't recovered, yet. If he had, the first thing he'd do wouldn't be feed himself. He wouldn't waste his strength on shooting the supersoldier in that smugaft smile, either. What he would do was fall off the berth, crawl over to that damn bookfile, and _destroy it_.

It didn’t occur to him that he’d set a goal. Fading away into low fuel warnings and eventual dark peace was just something he wanted less than punching Megatron’s holographic face over and over again until the projector finally broke. He _wanted_ it. He wanted the speech to stop. Megatron’s words scraped his audios in unbearable, endless noise that frustrated him _so much_ he couldn’t _take_ it anymore!

Two days later, Overlord strode into the room and smiled wider than ever. On the floor beside the table, leader of the D.J.D. glared up at him. The blanket still draped around his shoulders, trailing toward the berth. He shivered in exhaustion from thrashing free, but it had been worth it. The entire ordeal, from energon to getting loose to crawling across the floor had become one cathartic release. Beneath his fist, shards of his former leader still spoke in flickers of light and sound, and Tarn shut off his optics, struggling against the weakness sapping his body to lift his hand one more time. The bookfile smashed to pieces.

“Very good,” Overlord praised him in velvety, satisfied amusement, and Tarn turned his head away, unable to face that ever-present smile.

**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt. 3

**[* * * * *]**

**Pt. 3**

**[* * * * *]**

“I can feed myself.” He took a swipe at the glass of energon.

Unsurprisingly, it was held out of reach. Sitting up to grab after it got him nowhere but sitting up, glaring further upward at the traitor smiling down at him in fond amusement, like Kaon watching the Pet roll about on the floor gnawing on a spark chamber. How cute. How adorable. How likely to rip someone’s fuelpump out given half a chance.

“Now, now, Tarn, none of that now. You know I can’t trust you with your own fueling, after last time.” 

Tarn drummed his fingers on the blanket. No comment on that. Flinging the full glass of energon into Overlord’s smug face had been satisfying at the time, but it left whatever thin façade of trust the two of them played at weighted to Overlord’s advantage. The traitor had been nothing but helpful, kind, and patient. A model caregiver. Tarn had been contrary, angry, and physically difficult in as many ways as possible, at least at first. Nurse Overlord looked down at Bad Patient Tarn with patently false worry in his optics, and Tarn’s motors shifted up in disgruntlement.

The glass lifted a few microns higher. Overlord sighed, mocking. “Tarn. Are we going to have a regression? I thought we were making such progress. You’ve been so **good** , why, it’s as though you’d slotted in a new ammo pack!” He beamed down at his patient. “You wouldn’t be thinking of attacking me again, would you?”

No comment on that, either. Tarn had learned to prefer the stinging embarrassment of cooperation over the humiliation of defeat. Attacking Overlord didn’t even earn a proper fight. Overlord just took it as a cue to lavish more attention on him. Tarn had found himself pinioned under layers of restrictive blankets and cradled in Overlord’s lap. Locked into some sort of bizarre time-out punishment cuddle, Tarn had fussed without effect. Starvation-weak, his body recovered slower than Tesarus’ P.D.P. scores. Exhausting himself fighting had led to actually falling asleep, a sleepily indignant kitten-weak mech soothed into recharge by the arms rocking him back and forth. 

The thick, sweet corrosion of Overlord’s words followed him offline. It ran beneath his restless sleep. He’d dreamt of violence, of rebellion. Defragmenting memory files pieced together a beloved voice raised in speeches that had started a revolution as Tarn ripped himself free of chains he hadn’t known he’d been wearing. The freedom had been sudden, shocking, and cold.

He’d woken alone in the dark, having thrashed free of the blankets. Overlord had left him alone at last. Chilled, Tarn had clumsily pulled the blanket back up onto his recharge slab and turned onto his side to stare at the wall for the rest of the night, wide awake.

He wasn’t going to pick a fight with the supersoldier again, not until he was absolutely sure he’d win it. The dreams weren’t worth it. 

Tarn folded his arms and chose not to resist the nudge to his mask. Overlord slid it up, and Tarn glowered as he opened his mouth to the glass rim pressed to his lips. Feeding him by hand was totally unnecessary. They both knew it. Overlord did it anyway, savoring his control over a mech who hated the very fuel in his tanks. He’d always enjoyed a challenge, but winning was the true joy. His engine all but purred satisfaction. 

It made a familiar backdrop to this inane ritual. Tarn leaned his head back to accept the energon poured into his mouth one swallow at a time. The glass tipped up until the last trickle went down. He resisted the urge to wipe the back of his wrist across his mouth, afterward. He still wasn’t used to drinking without a straw. His lips felt uncomfortably wet, tricking him into thinking he’d spilled energon, but if he wiped his mouth so crudely, Overlord would laugh at his lack of manners.

A broad thumb ran under his lower lip, collecting a stray drop. This time, instead of bringing it to his own mouth and closing those full lips around it, smirking, Overlord dragged it across Tarn’s mouth back the other direction, smearing the energon over his lips. Taken off guard, Tarn licked his lips before he thought about it. 

“There. Good.”

Tarn blinked a second before scowling. “And how is that necessary to my recovery? Do tell.”

Overlord patted him on the helm, shunting the mask back into place. Tarn refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Behavioral training. Your little medic does have quite the strict system in place for how her patients behave under her care, have you noticed? I wasn’t expecting to have a miniature dictator reading me my rights when I came back online.” Amusement dipped toward darker emotion, the glimpse into Overlord’s thoughts that occasionally showed through the supersoldier’s careful tending. 

Those flashes concerned the leader of the D.J.D. He didn’t know if they were directed toward the ship of Autobots that had apparently both survived execution by his own unit and almost managed to kill Overlord, or if Overlord was simply losing interest in whatever game he was playing with Nickel.

“Speaking of our tiny medical tyrant.”

Tarn eyed him. Those were never good words to hear from Overlord, especially said in that tone of muted glee. Overlord began the endless blanket tucking Tarn had become used to, but the tank didn’t relax into the warm cocoon. He squinted his suspicion at his evil nurse, waiting for the blow to fall, but Overlord let the expectant silence stretch on. Tarn squirmed inside the ridiculous restraints. Overlord tucked them tighter. 

Yeah, he definitely wasn’t going to like whatever Nickel had planned for him next. Overlord was pretty much wrapping him for delivery. Frag this. He was going to find where the traitor put his fusion cannons eventually, and then he’d make Overlord _pay_.

“You’ll recall the terms of your recovery, hmm?” Overlord put a hand on Tarn’s chest, leaning just enough to pin him to the berth. “If your health is risked by any simple matter you should be taking care of yourself, it will fall to me to assume responsibility for it. For your sake, you understand. You are an ‘at risk’ patient, according to your ruling monarch of the medical field.”

Actually, Tarn didn’t remember that. He didn’t remember much of Overlord’s arrival. Everything had been a blur of low fuel warnings, apathy, and a listless, draining depression. “The only thing I’m at risk of is getting my fist stuck up your manifold,” he said, but on automatic. This sounded somewhat dire.

Overlord looked pleased by his irritation. “And that’s progress! I’m happy for you, Tarn, but Nickel isn’t quite as pleased. As she told me earlier, there are certain hygienic rituals a healthy mech wouldn’t neglect unintentionally.” Tarn’s spark plunged into his tanks. “Since you insist you are in control of yourself and your faculties, we’ve come to the mutual decision that you are intentionally ignoring your hygiene. That’s unacceptable. So,” Overlord drew out, leaning closer, coincidentally placing more of his weight on his suddenly squirming patient, “care of such matters has been formally transferred to my responsibility.”

Oh, no. Oooooh, no, this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. “Don’t you da **aaaaaare put me down at once!** ”

“It’s time for a nice, long bath. You’ll feel much better once you’re clean,” Overlord said, six kinds of pleasant. He adjusted his hold on the frantic bundle of bound mech in his arms and strode toward the door. “Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be, Tarn. You’ll enjoy this.”

“I’ll destroy you! **Again!** ”

“I’m sure it’ll be more effective a second time.”

**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt 4

**[* * * * *]**

**Pt. 4**

**[* * * * *]**

“ **You promised!** ”

“Ah, well, I didn’t mean -- you must understand that under the circumstances I was, that is, the news left me in something of a disarray.“ His hands rose in unconscious defense. Ludicrous as it was to fear someone the size of an energon cube, Tarn leaned back from the outraged femme shouting at him. “Nickel, please, if you’d just listen -- “

She railroaded right over his excuses, and they _were_ excuses. He stumbled over how pathetic they sounded as he said them aloud, and she shouted over him, “You promised me you’d do something! You promised me there’d be no more Prions, you bastard! You promised me you’d **do** something, and you haven’t, and you **won’t**. You want to know why I turned to him?!” She stabbed a finger at the supersoldier standing behind the tub. His hands on Tarn’s treads were the only reason the leader of the D.J.D. hadn’t retreated from the micro-sized medic balanced on the lip of the tub yelling at him. “You weren’t doing anything, that’s why! And you **still** aren’t! You’re sitting in your room feeling sorry for yourself, well, **guess what** , the Black Block Consortia doesn’t give a flying frag what side Megatron’s on! All they care about is who they can slaughter next, and Overlord might be an insufferable pile of -- “

“Pardon me?” said the insufferable pile, but he sounded more amused than offended by the fiery little spitfire reading Tarn the riot act.

“You heard me!” Nickel raged. Her ire shifted lightning-fast back to Tarn before his singed ego even thought about getting its tail out from between its legs. “People are dying, Tarn! They’re dying, and they’re being sold for **parts** by organic species bent on an-annihilating us like they -- like they annihilated m-my colony, and you’re not stopping them. You’re sit -- sitting in your room because that cogsucker wo-won’t play with you anymore.” Emotions hitched Nickel’s voice in upset sobs of air and sound. She panted, hand trembling as she shook her fist at her leader. Technically, she should accord him more respect.

Right now, however, Tarn wasn’t a leader worth respecting. He was simply an appalling patient taken thoroughly aback by being plonked into a tub and screamed at in righteous fury. 

“I don’t -- I don’t **care** about Megatron, Tarn. I care that you -- y-you made me a **promise**. You f-fed me this **slag** about the Decepticon Cause, and that’s all it’s turned out to be. **Scrap**. Th-the Cause isn’t Megatron. I didn’t -- I didn’t swear to **Megatron** , you gigantic circuit-fried waste receptacle! I swore to the Cause, and you promised me -- **you promised me** \-- it meant no more Prions! No more of our kind dying because of organics! Because of the Consortia, or the Galactic Council, or **anything else** that threatened us! I don’t care if that means Megatron himself! **You promised me!** ”

By now, she hovered in the air directly in front of Tarn, hands latched onto the sides of his mask as she shook him down the spark, yelling right into his face. He cowered from her assault, shocked. Horrified, too, as her words sank painfully accurate truths into his mind. His hands rose in vain defense, making ineffective pushing motions that didn’t even get close to the tiny femme in his face.

“ **You promised!** ” she screamed with all the power of her little body, the meter on her forehelm maxed out.

A large hand reached over Tarn’s shoulder to cup the medic, scooping her out of the air. For a moment, her bitty hands stayed hard on the sides of Tarn’s mask as if she could cram everything she felt into his head by fists and volume alone, but then she flung herself away. She slumped into Overlord’s hand, releasing Tarn as if he disgusted her. 

She was too small to move him, but Tarn was still rather weak. He swayed, blinking. “I…Nickel, I never meant…it wasn’t my intention to…”

A loud, angry razzing gave her opinion on his intentions. She pointedly turned her helm away. Feeble excuses: denied. 

Overlord stretched to set her down on the tub rim. “My advice is to keep your vocalizer offline until you think of a decent apology,” he said to the shellshocked mech he supported with his other hand. “And cease your senseless resistance. It’s only a bath, Tarn. Fighting me over basic hygiene when Cybertronians are dying seems quite petty in perspective, don’t you think? It’s as though you don’t want to recover.”

Nickel made a singularly ugly noise at Overlord’s light tone, but she held her peace. Meter jumping, she skated along the tub lip. “He’s an immature glitch whose favorite playmate found a new best friend. Expecting him to see the universe outside his own selfish moping would be like expecting you to do something out of selfless devotion.”

Overlord chuckled as he guided Tarn into the waist-deep water. “As you say.”

For his part, Tarn folded meekly down. Fighting against being dumped into the bathtub was what had brought on Nickel’s tantrum in the first place, and he was afraid of setting her off again. His spark and mind felt sandblasted raw already. Overlord’s sweetly poisonous sniping had given him a lot of things to think on, but Nickel had unloaded on him like a shotgun going off, pointblank.

So when Overlord started scrubbing him, Tarn stayed passive and let him work. He had to think. 

Overlord allowed him silence, for once. Scrubbing him clean took some doing. The mines of Messatine weren’t a clean place to live, especially if one did nothing but lie there acquiring a coat of dust. Gentle scraping from an armor pick dug out accumulated filth. The pick reached between armor plates, scraping at edges and over cables. Chinks were picked at, loosing dirt. Every other joint, Overlord paused to scoop up a handful of warm water to douse the cleaned area. Water sluiced under Tarn’s armor. The dirt swirled away. He shivered under the attention but didn’t otherwise object. He was too deep in thought to flinch away from the massage of fingers down his upper arms. His fingers were spread and dipped into the water, Overlord paying particular care to their cleanliness. 

After some time, the slow cleaning reached his helm. Tarn flinched at the feel of a wire brush working into his audio, but he bent his head under Overlord’s hand. Water was poured over his helm a handful at a time, rinsing him.

When he raised his head again, Nickel stood across from him. She held an iron stick in her hands. From the narrow way she glared at him, he didn’t think she had any faith in him submitting to its use without a fight.

“I can do that myself,” he said, subdued, and she squinted harder. He opened his hand toward her, careful not to disrupt the pick working down his back. Overlord was right. None of this was worth starting a fight over. The things he should be concentrating his energy on were far more important than his pride. Personal feelings shouldn’t have come between him and the promises he’d made, the oaths he’d sworn.

The Cause he believed in.

The iron stick slapped into his palm. He heard the message loud and clear: she’d be helping Overlord, if it came to that. Nickel had a thing for oral hygiene. Alloy build-up was a pet peeve of hers. Overlord rumbled amusement but didn’t interfere. Maybe he’d been looking forward to holding Tarn down and cleaning his mouth out, too. Tarn wouldn’t put it past him, anyway. 

Keeping his head down out of some belated need for privacy, Tarn slid his mask up and brushed his teeth.

**[* * * * *]**


	5. Pt. 5

**Pt. 5**

**[* * * * *]**

He’d thought this weakness died with Pharma. He’d thought it was gone, over with, complete. He’d missed it, oh how he’d missed it, but missing it didn’t meant he was foolish enough to open himself to exploitation. Pharma was dead, and the secret had died with the blasted Autobot.

So he’d thought, but Overlord proved him wrong.

Defeat had a familiar taste by now. Tarn moaned softly, humiliated but unable to do more than lie here. His hands opened and closed against the table. At full strength, Tarn fancied himself nearly a match for Overlord. He’d almost held his own in the fight last night. Instead of being deterred by Tarn’s recovery, however, the perverse fragger had apparently been inspired to new heights of unwanted pampering. The table, the sanding disks, and the paint had been set out, ready for Tarn’s arrival this morning. He’d had about four seconds to realize what was awaiting him before Overlord took him down. 

He squeezed his optic shutters shut. It failed to block out the embarrassment. Overlord was an unparalleled sadist, which was saying something considering how the Justice Division worked. He hadn’t allowed Tarn the miniscule dignity of going down fighting, and that stung like nothing else. He’d stood there smirking as he cut Tarn’s knees out from underneath him with one underhanded move, and the leader of the D.J.D. felt about three feet tall. His pride had absolutely nothing to hold onto. He’d swooned into Overlord’s arms, for frag’s sake. 

Unconditional surrender earned him no mercy. He was being toyed with for the sheer entertainment value of his squirming mortification, but he couldn’t stop himself. Thick fingers rubbed under his chin, and Tarn swallowed a whimper. He sank a little lower, hands kneading unconsciously at the tabletop. Every gentle stroke down his throat made his engine purr. Firm skritching along his jawline rolled his head to the side to open up more room. His optics flickered as he twisted, a slow and languid stretch on the table that went nowhere and resisted nothing. There was simply too much heavy, warm pleasure for his body to contain without small, helpless motions like his hands flexing, holding on and letting go. 

Frustration bubbled far underneath the blurry contentment turning his protests to fuzz. He was finally strong enough to fight back, but Overlord’s tickling fingers held him in thrall. Anger slipped away as fast as Tarn could muster it. He was flat on his front being sanded down for a repaint, and he couldn’t even put up a token resistance. 

He didn’t know who. He didn’t know how. Somehow, despite all his precautions and Pharma being _dead_ , Overlord had ferreted out his deepest, darkest vulnerability.

He’d been tamed.

Overlord’s other hand worked the sanding disk down his back, grinding marred paint off metal. The rough scraping sanded down his weldscars as well, smoothing him to a pristine state he hadn’t cared to reach since he dedicated himself to the Cause. He maintained himself to the level of a Decepticon officer and no more. Megatron had always seen Tarn’s scars as marks of service.

Even hypnotized into a blissful daze, Tarn flinched at that. For so long, he’d taken pride in his devotion. Now it singed his spark. 

Overlord paused. The fingers under Tarn’s chin massaged, scratching in among the cables. It lulled him back into relaxing despite whatever he might have wanted to the contrary. “Shh, shh,” that deep voice crooned. “Calm down. Why are you upset?” The sarcastic quirk to the slagheap’s perpetual amused smile could almost be heard. Why on Messatine would the leader of the D.J.D. be upset, laid out in purring contentment under the hands of a List mech? What a mystery.

Fragging glitchhead cogsucker.

His thoughts took a long time to complete like this. By the time his irritation surfaced, the gentle rub under his chin had him reduced to puddle of relaxation. Tarn blinked rapidly, then sighed, accepting his defeat with sullen grace. He stretched out, opening his armor to Overlord’s hands. It didn’t matter who did it. Better the weldscars be erased. They were badges of shame, now, worse than any submission to Overlord’s manipulation. 

Of course, Overlord couldn’t let victory pass by in silence. Triumph was to be savored.

“Your little medic continues to be concerned for your health,” he said after some time. The tank on the table hummed vague response. “It seems you’ve learned nothing. A head-on attack, Tarn? You should know better. I wouldn’t have thought you so weak, but you do seem determined to die. First starving yourself, now taking a page from your subordinates’ book and writing some sort of senseless ending wherein you go out in a blaze of glory fighting Megatron to the bitter end. What heroic nonsense.” He turned his hand to run his knuckles along the sensitive line of Tarn’s jaw, and a louder moan answered him. Overlord tsked, shaking his head. His patient was listening, although Tarn couldn’t seem to pull together a coherent answer to his accusation. “Shush. I can see right through your sad attempts at redeeming yourself. Or is it an attempt to redeem **him**? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It’s a trite story to write yourself into wish-fulfillment fantasy instead of planning for reality, Tarn. Confronting your beloved **former** leader won’t result in repentance, much less a dramatic revelation of a vast important plot you were the key to.”

“Megatron **defected** , Tarn. That won’t change. Even if it did, what would it say about you and yours if you bent the rules for Megatron, of all people?” Overlord bent close to speak directly into his audio. “You hold him to a higher standard of conduct. It’d prove your devotion to the Cause if you put him on the List, but you don’t dare. You won’t risk it. I’ve been waiting, Tarn, but you still hold onto hope. Oh, it’s cute of you to whine at your idol’s heels, but he’s turned his back on you. I should know. I know exactly what his back looks like, and I’ve waited long enough for you to realize he won’t be coming back. He’s an **Autobot** now.”

Far beneath the heady pleasure, anger sparked inside Tarn’s mind. His hands curled into loose claws on the table.

“That’s what this confrontation plan is about, isn’t it? Don’t think we don’t know, Tarn. You either want to force him to recant as he kills you, carrying the secret of his plan to your grave in an epic tragedy, or die a hero defying him to your dying breath.” Overlord made a contemptuous _’pssht!’_ noise dismissing the idea. “You don’t plan on surviving, either way. That’s why you want to inject yourself with enhanced nucleon.”

The contented purr of a blissed-out engine hiccupped for half a second as rage broke through. How had Overlord discovered his plan? _Who had betrayed him?_

Overlord pet the tight cables of his throat, and Tarn subsided, the hellish glow of his optics dimming to barely-aware crimson. His engine grumbled for a minute more. A few scratches right beneath his chin settled him back into the empty headspace where thoughts dissolved as soon as they formed.

“Don’t be so upset, Tarn. Your little medic was entirely right to bring your plan to my attention. It’s hardly a plan, at that. More of an extension of your suicidal inclinations. How selfish of you. Did you bother to think what it would do to her to stand by as you died in a fueling chamber? She **is** a medic. A snappish survivor of an utterly delightful amount of trauma -- Kaon showed me the vidfiles of Prion; I find it amazing she’s sane at all -- but a medic. Even if you survived her injecting you with that much of an unstable performance enhancer, she’d still hold herself responsible once you flung yourself against Megatron. Your death would be on her tiny helm. Poor little thing, to have suffered so much and then have you carelessly throw your death on her shoulders.”

Guilt iced the bottom of the thick pleasure. Tarn felt distantly grateful he couldn’t connect two thoughts. He had the feeling Overlord’s words were going to come back to haunt him once he had the processing power to think about them properly, but that time wasn’t now. For now, all he could do was lie here and listen.

It…made confronting certain truths about himself easier, in a way. He couldn’t escape them while pinned down.

Overlord took full advantage of his helpless compliance. Sanding disks ground down his back while he kept dripping poisonous reason in Tarn’s audios. “Your unit might be willing to go along with your plan, Tarn, but I’m not one of your witless subordinates. I’ll interfere. You won’t thank me for it, but I believe I have your best interests at spark. What kind of nurse would I be to let my patient die?” He held the cloying tone for a second, but laughter broke the act. Overlord couldn’t even pretend he wasn’t keeping Tarn alive for his own purposes. “Ha! Fine. But I won’t allow you to take the easy way out. You don’t get to die in stupid, useless sacrifice. I want you to do **more**. A nuke-high won’t be enough to take down Megatron, not if you can’t hold me off as you are now.”

Oh, yes. Overlord knew about Tarn’s addictive personality. Deep in his head, Tarn flinched. He’d been attempting to hide his morphing addiction by taking small hits of nucleon on the side, but Nickel had probably noticed his levels amping up during her checks. What Nickel knew, Overlord inevitable found out. He’d hoped the nuke would strengthen him enough to hold Overlord off, but what with Overlord cheating to take him down, it hadn’t helped in the slightest. All it’d done was give Overlord leverage.

“You don’t get to die a hero. You will live with what Megatron is, and what the Decepticon Cause has become. That’s reality. You can’t write it to fit the narrative you want, no matter how you attempt to change the facts. But, just in case you have the strange idea it’s a solution, I’ll be taking that nucleon away. I don’t imagine your subordinates will give me any trouble over removing temptation, but I suppose I might have to explain my reasoning if they do, hmm?”

Tarn hadn’t thought he had much pride left after days of being nannied, but Overlord’s silky gloating struck into the tattered remnants. The thought of Overlord laying out a pitiless dissection of his failures and plans _stung_. Before that threat, Tarn buckled.

Not immediately. Not while Overlord had him limp on his front, groomed to a fine, glossy shine of new paint and smoothly sanded metal. Not while he hummed, chin balanced on Overlord’s fingers, rubbed into purring, mesmerized pleasure.

Overlord couldn’t keep him docile forever. Sluggish in the afterglow of paint and polish, Tarn accessed the unit frequency. “Change of plan. Put the nucleon back into storage, and ready the _Peaceful Tyranny_ for departure.” 

They had a Warworld to track down.

**[* * * * *]**


	6. Pt. 6

**Title:** Devil May Care  
 **Warning:** Attempted suicide, forced care, mindfragging instead of mental help.  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Continuity:** IDW, AU for MTMTE #39  
 **Characters:** Tarn, Overlord, Nickel, Decepticon Justice Division.  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Voter incentive ficlets for an Arkansas voter.* Thanks for voting!

**[* * * * *]**  
 **Pt. 6**   
**[* * * * *]**

 

Tarn didn't know what was more maddening, that Overlord had invited himself along or that the rest of the Justice Division seemed to have no problem with that invitation. It wasn't as though Overlord was laying low. The infuriating pile of self-important wasted metal claimed the best seat on the bridge, put his feet up on the back of Kaon's communication console, and proceeded to watch everything they did with a smug smile.

"What?" Helex asked, confused by Tarn confronting him in the hall. All four arms shrugged. "We killed him once. Far as Kaon's List goes, he's crossed off."

"He outranks us," Tesarus added. “I mean, not that what **he** decided matters anymore,” his mouth pulled into a frown at Megatron, “but we’re still Decepticon military. You’re outside the usual ranks, not us. He’s still an officer. Nobody promoted us or demoted him, so, yeah. He outranks us.”

That was a fair point, but one Tarn could have easily deleted by decreeing Overlord no longer a Decepticon. He almost did exactly that, except Vos gave him one of those speaking looks that told Tarn he was being overdramatic again. Vos had started using those looks more often. Tarn had the distinct feeling that he was being judged. The sinking sensation in his tanks probably meant he was falling short of Vos' standards in those judgments. 

Fraggit, just once he'd like to not fail his unit. It seemed like that's all he'd been doing lately. 

He forgot his failures upon entering the bridge, of course, as Overlord and Kaon had struck up some kind of conversation. They were getting on marvelously. Glaring at the chatty duo, Tarn claimed the second-best seat on the bridge to sulk on for the shift. 

Afterward, he went down to the medibay to complain at Nickel, who set him straight on the issue. Mostly by slapping him about the mask. Big fan of physical persuasion, Nickel was. She had to use her jetpack to get up that high, but she had one Pit of a good right hook. “You’re. Being. A. Petty. Fragger. You. Fragger!” was how she started her tirade, and she only got more foulmouthed from there. 

"...point made," Tarn muttered when he got over the speechless shock of being assaulted by a tiny foe capable of dissembling him with words. Nothing like being verbally flayed to straighten his head out. Actually, when he thought about it, it was kind of touching that she took the time to kick his aft instead of just making obscene hand gestures in his direction.

Aww, she really did care.

"Hmmph. It better be made or I’m going to come back up there and shove it down your intakes. We're about to take on an entire War World full of Decepticons that hate us," it gave Tarn a thrill of pride every time she referred to herself as part of the unit without even thinking about it, "and you're whining about Overlord coming along. Did it ever occur to you that having him along might be a good thing?" She shook a finger at him, scolding. Tarn meekly bent his head before her wrath. "You're still not up to full power, and you're coming off of a nuke addiction. Ep ep ep! I saw exactly what you were doing, and I'm not forgetting it anytime soon, so buckle up, bolthead, he's coming along for the ride!"

Mutter mutter grumble. How embarrassing. The rest of the unit wasn’t supposed to have seen him using the enhanced nucleon to regain his strength. Overlord had…persuaded him it wasn’t the best route to go. That should have been the end of it, but as his medic, Nickel had seen it all and made her disapproval known by sicc’ing Overlord on it. From the evil optic she was giving him now, she wasn’t above informing the rest of the D.J.D. of his sins if he kept whining at her about Overlord being an obnoxious cogsucker.

Blackmail: a fine Decepticon tradition.

"Fine," he growled, feeling equal parts put upon and proud. He left the medibay with a new iron stick for his teeth and some bruised feelings. Nickel had little tolerance for fools, and zero mercy. He was going to have to be clever when it came time to get rid of the ship’s unwanted guest.

He brooded on it until he reached the bridge again, whereupon he threw the iron stick at Overlord's head. "You're the one who taught it to do that!"

Overlord didn't dignify him by turning away from wrestling the Pet. Teeth clamped on the massive mech's hand, champing as Overlord curled his fingers behind the long front teeth to jiggle the easily excited sparkeater back and forth. Barks and whines accompanied eager shaking as the stupid creature tried to kill its prey. It would have been a cute tug-of-war if not for the fact that nobody else aboard had nigh-impenetrable armor. When the Pet tried to ‘play’ with them the same way, the bites _hurt_.

Which likely explained why Overlord had taught the Pet to do it in the first place.

Tarn let it go before Vos could give him the Look of Disappoint for losing his cool over a dumb trick. "Get your feet off the console," he muttered instead, stomping over to grab the Pet's leash and pull it away from Overlord's bad influence.

Overlord promptly stretched out, putting his hands behind his head. "Relax, Tarn. One would almost think you're nervous, how you're behaving."

"I'm not nervous," Tarn snapped at him. "Justifiable anger is not the same as nerves, so quit your baiting and take your grubby feet off the console. Kaon has to use that."

"So he'll use a console my grubby feet have been on," Overlord said. “What an enormous imposition that will be. I’ll make sure to apologize to him.” He smiled up at Tarn. "Later, perhaps. For now, tell me, what's you plan? Do you intend to barge into Deathsaurus' territory, guns blazing? Are you going to take him and his out to capture his Warworld? One Warworld won't change the odds to your favor." His voice fell to a more thoughtful assessment. “Black Shadow emptied that one out on his own. I wonder what they’ve done for internal defense mechanisms since they took over? It’d be interesting to test them.”

The bitter rage tamped under his spark flared as Overlord poked at it, but Tarn had grown wise to the fragger's barbs. All that was missing now was a dig at his loyalty to the Cause or a comment about Megatron defecting to the Autobots. With an effort of will, Tarn ignored Overlord’s meandering words entirely. 

Well, not entirely. "The plan is to find a black hole to dump you in," he said under his breath, and Vos snickered. At some point, the prickly bristle of Tarn's temper around Overlord had become a source of amusement to the unit. The rest of the unit respected their commander as officer and deadly in his own right. It was kind of funny watching somebody outside their chain of command wind Tarn up in indignant frothing rage with little needling comments.

"Intriguing, Tarn, but hardly a viable plan," Overlord drawled, winking at Vos. 

Tarn hated that the fat-lipped glitch was familiar enough with his crew to be winking at any of them. He immediately put himself between the two of them like a barrier of authority, glaring at Overlord. "Neither is feeding you your own fist, but I've been ironing out the details on that one for a while now."

It earned him a lazy smirk. "Kinky."

Tarn blinked. "What are you -- ugh. Shut up."

"I'd tell you to make me, but you'd probably take that as an invitation."

"Yes, I would." Tarn shut off his optics, regretting his words the moment they left his mouth. Behind him, helpless laughter sputtered out. "Vos. Silence."

Overlord snickered for Vos.

**[* * * * *]**

_[ **A/N:** *If you don’t know what the voter incentive ficlets are, they’re me offering fic in return for people voting in the American Presidential primaries. If you’ve voted, you can **send me a Tumblr Ask** with your state and claim a ficlet or ask for the writing time to be applied toward an actual fic. Until the curtain rises next time, m’dears..]_


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